


The Light Touch

by Barkour



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2519522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ways down the road, Iris and Barry have fun with a couple applications of this super-speed business; or, who's going to clean up that couch?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Light Touch

**Author's Note:**

> [throws hands high] It's porn!

“Look!” Iris straightened off his shoulder. “Look, it’s you.”

Barry grumbled and only tucked his head deeper into the crease between the couch cushions. So Iris whacked his chest with the back of her hand. 

“You’re on TV.”

He squinted. In the darkness of the apartment’s cramped living room, the red of his costume showed especially bright.

“All on tonight in the 10 o’clock news,” said Mason. The station’s jingle played; the commercial ended; and Barry dropped into the cushions again.

“I look like a Christmas present,” he mumbled.

Iris tugged on his arm. Reluctantly he came up. She swung her legs across her lap to hold him there. His hand fell to her knee.

“I like the red. It’s very…” She paused, her fingers unfurled in the air. Outside the window a street light illuminated passing snow flakes, small and pale where they darted through its glow. “Festive.”

His head turned. She pressed her cheek to the back cushion. Across that quiet, dark distance they studied one another. The usual easy smile pulled at him.

“Christmas present.”

Iris laughed. She slung her left arm around his back and her right arm across his chest, to lace her fingers on his far shoulder. She tipped her head.

“My Christmas present.”

“Oh,” said Barry, “well—I don’t know about that. You haven’t seen what’s under the tree yet.”

All of it so very easy. She stroked her finger along his shoulder. His eyelashes were set low over his eyes, not seductive but sleepy. There was something sweeter to that. 

“I helped write that report, by the way.”

“Did you?”

“I did,” she affirmed. 

His smile brightened. His lashes lifted. Whatever the day’s confrontation with Zoom—again, escaped—had cost, he forgot it in the moment. 

“That’s awesome!” He slipped his hand around her hip, hoisting her legs nearer. Iris wriggled comfortably. “But you’re not presenting?”

“Not tonight. But I told you, right?” She left off cuddling his shoulder to poke his chest. “I filmed a segment for the special report on Saturday about Grodd. Which, by the way—” Iris fluttered her hand and her eyes. “Not ever something I thought I’d be doing—standing in front of a camera for the news reporting on a gun-toting great ape.” 

He was laughing, the dopey laugh that buzzed through him now. Her bare thighs shivered with it. She poked him again.

“You forgot, didn’t you? Admit it.”

“I wouldn’t forget—how could I forget that?” Barry protested. “And I very definitely remember setting the DVR in case someone holds up a bank or steals the moon or does something illegal—”

“Highly illegal—”

“Actually, you know what,” he said, pushing off the couch, “it doesn’t even matter. Somebody else can take care of it, because I’m going to be right here—”

“On the couch,” said Iris.

“Watching you report on a telepathic gorilla.”

“Watching TV,” said Iris.

Barry fussed his mouth at her. Iris crossed her eyes at him and fussed her mouth right back.

“Will you let me be the supportive boyfriend for once?”

“Will you promise not to forget for once?” Iris teased.

His arms circled her. Hands settled warm at the low curve of her back. The television’s light flickered across his cheeks, the hollows of his eyes, his mouth. Each detail of his face was known to her.

“Iris,” Barry said, “you are the most unforgettable person—I’ve ever known.”

“That’s really,” she said, “Barry, that’s—so corny,” but she was smiling. A particular warmth roosted in her chest. It moved through her. 

Lightly, Iris kissed the corner of his mouth; then she kissed its brother. He drew a breath in through his nose. The exhale warmed her cheek as she rose up and turned, settling squarely on his legs. Her fingers ruffled the short ends of his hair, bristly along his nape. 

The holiday movie of the week droned on. Judy Garland was singing, somewhere far away. Iris bent, pulling at his lips so that his mouth fell open and his hands rucked up her night shirt. His tongue rolled against hers. So very slow. Lazy. A long day. 

His breath quickened though, and as she trailed kisses along his jaw, up along the narrow edge of his face, his head lolled. His chest rose and fell, and a finer vibration shook him. Beneath her he was shaking.

She traced her fingernails through his hair. “Barry…” His ear. The sharp line of his brow. The freckle at the juncture of his throat and jaw. She kissed them softly with her lips rounded and her heart drumming in her aching chest. 

“I was scared,” she admitted in the dark, in a voice to match the hour. “That you were…”

He cupped her face in his palms. Smooth. A typist’s hands, with the calluses on the tips. He pressed his forehead to hers. Briefly, she closed her eyes.

“But I didn’t.”

She looked at him again. “But you could have.”

Barry met her gaze. Here he was then, the boy she’d known almost all her life. He smiled, like he had that afternoon he walked into Jitters with his coat collar half-popped and a laugh in the wrinkling of his eyes, as if he weren’t supposed to be lying in a hospital bed at S.T.A.R. Labs in an unresponsive coma.

“But I didn’t,” he said again.

Iris kissed him forcefully: flat on his brow, then at his cheek, then his warm and welcoming mouth. Then she cupped his face as he cupped hers and she held him apart from her. Ghost light played on his skin.

“Barry,” she said, “if you ever left me—”

“I wouldn’t,” Barry said. His fingers slipped down her face. His palms were steady on her chest, steady but trembling, yes, as all of him trembled before her. “I would never leave you. I don’t think I could.”

She brushed her thumbs across his lean cheeks. He smiled, still. At Iris, he smiled. He did it as if he knew this to be absolute, that Barry would forever be with Iris. As he smiled she thought, what bridge was there she would not cross for him? To find him again if he were lost?

The snow was thickening. Now it stuck to the street outside, to the sidewalks. When Iris kissed him, he was there. He was hot, as he was always hot to touch, and he tremored, and he was there. 

Iris slid up his legs. His knees bounced. As she kissed him he smoothed his hands over her front. At the hem of her nightshirt, shoved up her thighs, he hesitated. One hand slid back up the front of the shirt to cup her breast, and he turned his head to deepen the kiss. 

Easy to run on from that. He was already vibrating. Wiggling her hips, she tipped her waist to press along his thrumming thigh: to grind to the frisson slithering quickly in her. Iris cupped his hand, squeezing his hand around her breast. Barry said her name into her mouth—moaned, “Iris,” and surged to meet her.

She had in the seventh or eighth grade—the eighth—caught Barry flexing in front of the mirror and frowning at his reflection. He’d worn boxers, nothing else. She had shrieked, and he’d shrieked too, and one or the other of them had slammed the door shut, and then Iris had laughed. 

Later—later, she had thought of it. Skinny legs. Knobby knees. Freckles everywhere, of course. Not at all like the sort of boys she giggled over with her friends. Still. Still: she’d stretched out in bed and thought of what a particular friend had told her about sitting on a boy’s knee, and she had thought of a particular knee and a particular leg and a particular spray of freckles on the back of Barry’s thigh, a constellation of spots that had only just peeked out from under his striped boxers.

Now: 

Iris wiggled again. “I thought about this once,” she confessed, between kisses. He was flitting, kissing her again and again. He would go to kiss her shoulder—her collar pulled to one side—or to nip her ear, but always he came back to her mouth.

“What?” 

He slipped one of his legs out from under her so that she settled on the one thigh. The buzz against her clit was both sudden and immediate, with just her shorts to dull the sensation. The sensation was very much not dulled. Iris gasped and tightened her knees. Her calves swung up behind her, off the couch. She fanned her toes. 

Barry lingered at her throat. She felt his smile, teeth bared—gone—he pulled away to grin at her. He was pink-cheeked and giggly. 

“What did you say?”

“I said,” she said, “that you’re such a—show-off.” She tried for severe but too much was bubbling up in her: she was giggling, too. 

“I could be worse,” he offered sweetly. His smile cheesed and he jogged his leg once, bouncing her. 

Iris clung to his shoulders; she hauled him to her. She was quaking. She was shivering, too, and yet he would go on vibrating. Her gut rippled. The unyielding and insistent hum of his thigh pressed against her.

She’d dated men who would have been smug about this. Barry just tilted his head and spattered kisses all along her throat, behind her ears, along her temples. His hands had moved up her shirt. One dipped; he made to stroke her back. His lips fluttered against her skin.

She caught his wrist with her hand, and she caught his lips with her own. 

“Slower,” she said, and she demonstrated with her tongue over his teeth.

Guiding his hand to her front again she pressed his fingertips between her legs. Iris swallowed. Her gaze dropped. Lifted. His lips so red. Almost bruised, though he would not bruise. She swallowed a second time, a third.

“Faster,” she said. She slipped her fingers up the inside of his wrist. His own fingers curled. The tips brushed along her folds, through her thin shorts. 

His eyes rose. This face. This dear face. She loved him. She thought it calmly. She supposed she had loved him for a few years. Longer than that, even. Nearly all their lives they had known each other. Nearly all that time, then, she had loved him. Perhaps not like this—certainly not like this—but:

“I love you,” Iris said. She tried to smile. She did smile. A great lightness was sweeping through her.

A great lightness swept through him, too. His lashes swept, too. His smile flickered. It widened. He was brightening before her.

“I love you,” Barry said. “I love you. Iris.”

She moved her hand up his arm. Her fingers slid around to the outside. To his shoulder, and she gripped that tightly. She said again:

“Barry,” she said, “I love you.”

He was shaking his head and he was smiling; he hadn’t stopped. His fingers twined gently, rubbing at her. Pleasure popped in her, low and high. His smile was the sweeter.

“I know,” he said.

“Nerd,” she said fondly, and she showed him again how to kiss her.

His hand fit under her hem. The slide of his fingers, slicked with her and vibrating, into her had Iris rising to her knees on either side of him. Barry tipped his head back to follow the arch of her throat, his lips humming over her skin just as his fingers—two, now three—hummed deep in her. He ground her clit under his palm. That vibrating too. 

Iris said, “Oh, God. Oh, _Barry_ ,” and his fingers hooked. A little noise caught in his throat. She peered down into his pale, half-lit and half-shadowed face to see it as it hit him: that first, fleeting orgasm. 

The refractory period was brief. It was always brief. She had joked about being jealous at first; then he’d very earnestly explained the benefits to her. Iris had asked for a demonstration. Demonstrations were helpful.

Barry sighed and opened his eyes. He smiled at her as if she were the most incredible person in a world of metahumans and heroes and gun-toting great apes.

His lips curved. She cradled his jaw and kissed him deeply, dragging at that smart mouth. Tongue, too quick. She fucked his fingers, like he fucked her in turn: drawing out and slipping in, in rhythm with his flexing wrist. The vibrating lanced at her. There, gone. There again. His free hand roamed over her; he was cupping the back of her head, then his fingers were under her shirt, the tips fizzing at her nipples. 

All through this he was speaking, his voice a blurring whine. 

“Slower,” Iris said, “Barry—please—”

He dragged his fingers through her. He was shuddering again. The vibration stuttered only once. His hand left her. The shirt was gone: she saw it falling in the corner by the window. Frost limned the glass.

Barry, gasping, said, “Sorry. Sorry—I’m back,” and Iris said, “Barry!” as he drove his fingers into her again. She clenched her toes. Pulled at his hair in her hands. He went accordingly to her breasts. His lips buzzed like his fingers, his tongue too, his teeth: he worked at her right breast, her left breast. Right. Her nipples ached. Stood rounded from her breasts. He nuzzled at her between her breasts and his tongue as it burred was rattling her breath.

She thought of his tongue lower. She thought of last night. Barry, still suited, on his knees. The weirdness of his unmasked face blurring before her as he drove her over the greater crest with his vibrating tongue. The familiar smoothness of his palms under her skirt, the beloved calluses on his fingertips, these known things grounding her to Barry. 

His hips bucked helplessly under her and he said, “I love you. I love you. God—anything you want—anything—Iris—” and this, then, was how he must have felt when she had said his name like that. 

She came to that crest. He pulled her over it. Iris engulfed Barry; she clutched him to her. Her hips rocked. He teased her with his fingers, stroking her with more of those rhythmic flexes; but the kiss he gave her temple was slow, and warm, and an anchor to steady her.

Iris tucked her forehead to his shoulder. Her eyes closed. The breath came ragged. She rolled her hips as he drew his hand from her. The throb lingered. 

“Anything?”

“Anything,” he said.

Iris settled—legs trembling—on his lap. He was hard in his boxers. Plaid, not striped. Green. Another Christmas color. She touched his upper thigh. A muscle there jumped. Barry’s jaw clenched then eased.

“Well,” she said, with confidence. “You won’t get mad if I open one of my Christmas presents early.”

“What?” said Barry, then his eyebrows shot up and he said, “That was—actually really good continuity,” and she said, “You’re lucky this nerd stuff turns me on,” and Barry said, “Yeah, I’m pretty lucky,” and he smiled like the sun coming up.


End file.
